Finality
by Kiba Sniper
Summary: Schezo has Satan right where he wants him, but something compels him to not go through with it. He tells himself that it's all for the sake of power, but he can't bring himself to kill Satan. Schezo/Satan


Finality

Satan is remarkably calm, and that's what frightens Schezo. Even with his sword nearly pressing against his neck, Satan remains neutral. The smile that plays on Satan's lips makes the hairs on the back of Schezo's neck rise.

Schezo smells copper. It's rich and infectious to the point of nausea as his mind starts swimming. He glances down at his feet, finding the pool of blood spreading. The scent wafts around him, lifting up from the ground as he takes a cautious step, his footprint imprinting in the scarlet puddle.

"You got me," Satan remarks, setting his hand to his chest and smirking like he had told a painful pun.

Schezo wonders how long and deep the slash is on Satan's body. He carved into Satan, having heard his ribs crack under the weight of his sword. To Schezo, that wound is their breaking point.

He has Satan right where he wants him. He is all for the taking like a bountiful harvest. All the magical powers that Satan possesses could become part of Schezo's being with one more clean cut straight through his neck.

Satan smirks, a fine red line dripping out of the corner of his mouth. Schezo watches him inspect his stained hand. Satan traces his thumb along the sharp points of his fingers, flicking away excess ichor.

"I really let my guard down. Allowing you that near fatal strike, how foolish of me," Satan croons, sitting upright, but Schezo thrusts his mighty blade to Satan's neck, the tip of it grazing him. His head tilts.

"Stay down lest I really plunge this into you," Schezo snarls, and Satan's eyes widen, dipping his chin to the blade, the smooth metal pleasing and cool to him.

"Really? Using such provocative language in this situation? And I thought you only did that with my dear Arle," Satan sneers, and Schezo tries to ignore the heat flushing in his cheeks that scorch him a brilliant red.

The urge to cleave Satan in two tickles Schezo's mind. The voice in the back of his head demands Satan's blood on his blade. When Schezo peers at his sword, he sees the end and hilt are dyed in Satan's blood. Something about it makes his skin crawl, and the scent of blood makes his head spin.

He's killed so many. Innocent wizards and sorceresses were slaughtered by his blade and dark magic. All for the sake of maintaining his magnificent power, Schezo slays and slays, but his hunger for strong magic is never satisfied.

Now, he has a being with absolute strength and glory at his feet treading the waters of life in an attempt to stay afloat. The paleness touching Satan's cheeks with the beginning traces of fog coating his eyes sends Schezo into a frenzy as his fingers twitch and thoughts race.

Killing Satan will bring him power he sought for decades. The mad fantasies of Rune Lord whisper in the crevices of his mind, ushering him to raise his sword far above Satan's head and then swing down straight through his skull. The sickening crunch of Satan's cleaved skull would then roar in Schezo's ears for eternity.

Yet, Satan remains still and makes no motion to retaliate. He simply watches Schezo as his arm moves. His eyes follow the blade's tip, and rivulets of blood race down it, landing on his splayed cape.

Something is wrong, Schezo realizes, as his arm stiffens. Satan should be reacting with screaming, desperation coating his voice or crying out for his beloved Arle. He should be gnashing his teeth and attempting an anguished spell or plead for his life like so many killed before him.

"Try something," Schezo orders, feeling the walls of the murky dungeon sink in on him. He can feel the grimy texture of mud graze his arms even though his sleeves are thick.

"Try what?" Satan counters, his free hand gripping his chest. He grimaces, his left eye twitching as the pain begins spreading. His lungs burn as his broken ribs jab into them. The remnants of bones prick against his muscles.

"Anything. You should be trying something. If you don't, then I'll really-" Schezo swallows as his words are blocked by his gritted teeth.

Satan's lips part, but to Schezo's ill surprise, they form into a deep grin. Satan brandishes his hands like shields, extending his fingers and revealing the blood dribbling down on his wrists and the cuffs of his cloak.

"You never thought you'd best me, did you, Dark Mage?" Satan asks, and like a book, he flips through the pages of Schezo's reaction. The way Schezo's eyes widen as his lips flap for some pathetic excuse to rebuke him is something Satan wishes he could capture and frame on his wall for his own personal amusement.

The gasp spitting up from the back of his throat makes Schezo want to gag. He had imagined this moment for so long, but it's all wrong. Their climax should not be in some nameless dungeon surrounded by muck and darkness. It should be in Satan's castle or in front of an audience for them to witness Schezo's ascension to godhood.

That's what he tells himself. Satan's composure and words slash through him in a way that Schezo could never reproduce on anyone else. Schezo tries to think of any plausible reason why he isn't issuing the final blow. Even though he had slain so many for the sake of power, Satan is the one person he can't kill.

Satan is an enigma that he cannot understand. No one is calm before death. Not a single soul can remain so impartial and cunning to completely turn the tables on their murderer.

Schezo's blade trembles in his grasp, and he watches Satan rise to his feet. Baffled at himself for allowing Satan to stand, Schezo roars and slashes at Satan's neck, but he is one step too slow. Satan's wings extend, and he is flying, soaring above Schezo. A quick lightning spell would have grounded him, but Schezo merely watches, wide-eyed, as Satan glides above him.

Satan lands, and his injury seems painfully wide. Even in the dimmed environment, Schezo can make out the tattered fragments of Satan's cloak painted a fresh crimson. Satan discards the throbbing pain within his upper body, toying Schezo with a smirk.

"Will you strike or do you want to continue this for another day?" Satan asks, setting his finger to the tip of Schezo's sword. He flicks the side of the blade, tossing specks of blood onto Schezo's face.

Schezo's gaze remains on the ground. As the pool of blood stilled, the splatter marks did not. He feels like he could almost count the red raindrops that had dripped out of Satan's wound, but instead, he sheaths his blade.

"Another day, Dark Prince," Schezo remarks, turning and walking away, his pace swift.

Satan grins, cupping his injury and replying, "See you again, Dark Mage. I'll be waiting for our next duel."

"Next time will be different," Schezo snaps, glaring over his shoulder, and Satan's laughter echoes, reverberating in the otherwise silent cavern.

He watches Satan amble, his shadow melting into the darkness before becoming one with it. Schezo is chilled to the bone, his heart thumping in his chest as he peers at the blood. His reflection curses him, demanding an answer for why he allowed Satan to leave.

He has no proper answer. It would have been foolish to acknowledge the real reason. Schezo continues walking, his blade heavy in his hand as he seeks another day.


End file.
